ultramarathon

I had run marathons before. Many of them. Edinburgh, Hamburg, Valencia, Porto, Budapest — cities I wanted to see on foot. At some point a marathon on a Saturday became a training run. And then, inevitably, further. Ringkøbing became my first real ultra: one hundred kilometres around the Ringkøbing Fjord in Denmark, clockwise.

I knew I would break. At seventy kilometres I thought I was dying. At eighty I have almost no memory. At ninety I stopped thinking entirely. My daughter ran the last ten kilometres beside me. I finished. For days afterwards I walked like an old man — and made plans for the next one.